


Binary

by jane_with_a_j



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, M/M, Memories, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-09-27 15:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20410144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale go stargazing.  It brings back a memory that Crowley has been keeping to himself for six thousand years.





	Binary

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a story about stars, but very quickly changed into something else entirely.
> 
> For Ineffable Husbands Week, day 3. Prompt: Fall

Alpha Centauri is not actually visible from anywhere in England.

There are, however, a multitude of other things to see in the night sky, if one is willing to drive some distance from the city to escape the light pollution.

And that is exactly what Crowley and Aziraphale did, one chilly autumn night, several weeks after the world didn't end. Out in the Oxfordshire countryside, miles from any town or village worth mentioning, they lay in the grass, with some warm blankets, a thermos full of cocoa, and a telescope.

They weren't actually using the telescope at this point. They were wrapped up in the blankets, just watching the sky. Neither of them had spoken in quite some time.

“Angel,” said Crowley, breaking the comfortable silence, “do you know any good stories about binary stars?”

Aziraphale shifted, turned his head slightly so that he could see Crowley's face. “What kind of stories?” he asked.

“Any kind of stories,” said Crowley.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “There aren't a lot of _old_ stories about binary stars specifically, probably because most of them appear to be single stars, to the naked eye. But multiple-star systems feature prominently in a lot of modern science fiction.” He looked back up at the sky. “There's something about the image of a double sunset, or a sky that never goes dark, that piques the human imagination.” He snugged the blanket up tighter around himself. “And a lot of writers like the symbolism of a binary system. Two stars, bound together, orbiting one another for all time, so closely that from a distance they appear to be one." He sighed, a soft smile flitting across his face. "Quite romantic, really. Why do you ask?”

“I designed a lot of binary systems,” said Crowley softly. “But I never really knew why.”

Beside him, Aziraphale went very still. “You're talking about before,” he said. “Before the War.”

“Mhm,” said Crowley. He wasn't sure why he had brought it up. In six thousand years, he'd never brought it up, and Aziraphale had known better than to ask. He didn't like to talk about before. Didn't like to think about before. Those memories belonged to someone else. The angel he had once been was long gone, and Crowley, if he was entirely honest, was fine with that. But tonight, looking up at the night sky, the stars still felt like they were his, somehow. And there was one memory he had never entirely let go of, one that he didn't want to keep to himself anymore.

“Do you think,” said Aziraphale, slowly, “that I would know something about why you liked to make binary stars?” And oh, that was a loaded question. After the War, the Fallen had lost the memory of their names. Those left behind in Heaven had lost the memory of everything else about them.

Crowley didn't answer.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked directly into the demon's eyes. “Why would I know that?” His gaze faltered. “Are you trying to tell me that we-”

“Knew each other? Not really.” Crowley let his eyes unfocus, remembering. “But we did meet once,” he said. “In the Archives.”

The great Archives of Heaven were home to an infinite number of potential stories, to every story that might, someday, be told. Today, the primary task of the archivists was to retrieve new stories as they were told, and move them to the open Library, where they became available to anyone who wished to read them. Before, in the time before time, the work of the archivists had been to catalogue all of the potential stories, to study them, and to use them to support the creation of the world. Before the Fall, before the War had forced so many angels to become soldiers, Aziraphale had been one of them.

It was dangerous knowledge, of course. To know the tales that might someday be told meant to know the worlds that might someday be. And so the knowledge never left the Archives. Anyone consulting the stories, archivists included, forgot everything they had read the moment they left. Decisions made beyond those doors could never be explained, never be understood. They were utterly and entirely ineffable.

Aziraphale, Crowley knew, had never returned to the Archives after the War. He had been posted on Earth, and on Earth he had remained. It hadn't taken all that long for him to come to prefer Earth to Heaven, but Crowley suspected that even now, he missed having access to the stories. He was sure it was one of the reasons the angel loved his collection of books so much.

“We met in the Archives,” Aziraphale repeated. “Crowley. I don't remember.”

“You might not have done in any case,” said Crowley, his voice aiming for nonchalant and not quite hitting it. “It was just the one time. I wanted to get some information to help with the star designs. You lot were always consulting with designers and makers, back then. I doubt it was anything unusual, for you.”

“Tell me,” said Aziraphale.

“I was having trouble making some decisions about my designs,” Crowley said. “I wasn't sure what I wanted them to be. Wasn't even sure what they were for. Pretty lights in the sky.” He waved a hand over his head, gesturing vaguely at the stars above them. “Some of the gang were just throwing things out there, willy-nilly. Didn't know why we needed them, didn't care to know. Just do the job, don't ask questions.”

“But you asked questions,” said Aziraphale.

"Yep," said Crowley. “The closest I ever got to an answer was when one of the others, can't recall who, told me that the stars would mean whatever the humans would decide they meant, and would I please shut up and get back to work.” It bothered him that he couldn't remember who it was who had said that. It probably meant that, whoever it had been, they, too, had ended up among the Fallen. “I don't think they realized what a good answer that was. Best kind of answer, that, one that filled my head with more questions. Mostly, I wondered how the humans would decide what the stars meant. And that,” he said, “is how I ended up deciding to consult the Archives.”

He looked over at Aziraphale. “You were there. You asked me what it was that I was looking for. So I told you, I wanted to know the stories that humans might someday tell about the stars.”

“That was the most important part of our job, back then,” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, so you told me,” said Crowley. “Not that it wasn't important to study and catalogue, but your main task was to guide the designers in ways that would increase the chances that the best stories would someday be told.” He turned his head and grinned. “You were so serious about it, so earnest. I, of course, was a smartass. How could you know, I asked, which stories were the best? And why did it matter?”

“A difficult question,” said Aziraphale. “There are so many factors to consider when deciding how much any story matters. Stories can be aspirational, or educational, or consoling. They allow us to imagine what it's like to be someone else, if only for a while. Some stories teach us how to navigate specific cultures, others reflect universal truths. Some stories provide a safe place to process fear or trauma. Some tell us that we aren't alone, or invite us to consider that the world might be different than it is. Some do several of those things, all at once." He stopped, as though realizing that he was rambling a bit. "Some are just for fun," he added, "and there's value in that, too.”

Crowley's grin widened. “You said something very much like that back then,” he said. “It was a very _earnest_ answer. Also, another one of those answers that just creates more questions.”

Aziraphale shifted. “I wish I could remember this,” he said unhappily.

“I'm sorry, angel,” said Crowley, the grin fading. “I wish you could remember it, too.” There were some, among the angels, who considered it a kindness that they had no memory of their Fallen comrades. Crowley had always thought it rather cruel.

“Well, go on,” said Aziraphale. “I want to hear the rest of it.”

“It gets fuzzy after that,” said Crowley. “We went into the Archives proper. You helped me to find what I was looking for. There were a few stories in there that you didn't care for at all; I remember the way you wrinkled your nose at them. I remember how pleased you were when you found one that you liked, and the way you smiled if I agreed with your assessment. We must have found some funny ones, because I remember laughing. I remember you finding me a workspace where I could go over the books and scrolls and drawings that we'd chosen and get to work on my designs. I remember thinking that you must have other duties to attend to, but you kept coming back with some new tale you'd found that you thought I might be interested in. What I don't remember... what I don't remember is what any of those stories actually were.”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “No, you wouldn't.” There was a note of wistfulness in his voice.

“I remember stepping out of the Archives after however long it had been, and feeling a sort of wrenching sensation, in my head, as we passed through the doors. Suddenly, there I was, with my arms full of drawings and notes – constellation sketches and colour schemes for a nebula I'd been working on, and pages upon pages of notes on possible configurations for binary star systems – and no idea what I'd been thinking when I'd done them.”

“Leaving the Archives was always terribly disorienting if you weren't accustomed to it,” said Aziraphale. “It was still a bit unsettling even if you were accustomed to it, honestly.” He sighed. “I imagine it still is.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Crowley asked.

“I suppose I do,” said Aziraphale. “But to go back, I'd have to give up all of this, everything we have here.” He snuggled up closer to Crowley's side. “This is better,” he said.

Crowley smiled. “Anyway,” he said. “I was, as you say, _terribly disoriented_. You didn't seem fazed by my reaction. Just sat with me until I calmed down and got my bearings. Didn't even say _I told you so_, although you had, in fact, told me exactly what to expect before we went in.” He fell silent. It felt like there should be more to the story than this, but that was it. “And then I left,” he said. “Went and got back to work. Used the designs I'd made, even though I had no idea why I'd done them that way, which was _maddening_. I meant to go back sometime, to say hello, to show you some of what I'd made. But there was no time. There was always something going on in those days, and the work kept me busy, and then...”

_And then I Fell._ He didn't say it. He didn't need to. Under the blanket, Aziraphale's hand found his, and gave it a little squeeze.

"If leaving the Archives was disorienting," said Crowley, "Falling was worse. It-" he didn't know how to describe it. There had been pain, but more pressing than the pain had been the feeling of _absence._

"After," he said. "In the Garden. I saw you, there at the gate with your flaming sword. And I couldn't think, at first, why you seemed so familiar. Must've skulked around the walls for days in my snake form, watching you, trying to figure it out, trying to remember. And then one day, you were talking to Eve, and she said your name, and it clicked.” He turned onto his side, to face the angel. “I barely knew a thing about you, but I remembered that I'd liked you, that one time we'd met before.” In truth, that little glimmer of familiarity had felt like a lifeline. “It was,” he went on, “it was the reason I went to talk to you, after the humans were expelled. I knew you wouldn't remember me, but I had an idea that you, I don't know, that maybe I could talk to you. Even though you were an angel and I was a demon.”

Aziraphale's eyebrows quirked up in that way they did when he didn't quite know what to say. “I'm glad you did,” he said after a moment. He looked up, back to the sky. “Are any of them in view tonight? The stars you made from the designs you did in the Archives?”

“Quite a few, actually,” said Crowley. He stood, offered his hand to the angel to help him up. “They'll look better through the telescope. Let me show you.”

The stars were scattered across the sky, and many of them did, in fact, have stories attached to them, both ancient and modern. Tales of adventure, of love, of loss, and of triumph. Some were tragic, some were inspiring, some were funny, and a few were more than a little absurd. Crowley had looked for a pattern, looked for significance in those stars and their stories more times than he could count. As far as he could tell, there was none. None, perhaps, but the fact that they were stories that two strangers might once have shared as they lay the foundation for a story of their own.

It didn't answer the questions about the knowledge he had left behind in the Archives. But tonight, it was answer enough.


End file.
